Murder in the Bastille

by Cara Black

  At least they had proof Vaduz was in Porte la Chapelle at midnight. Even if he U-turned and went to Bastille, it would have taken him a while to cross the eastern part of Paris. No matter what Barzac might say, the flics would take a bonded locksmith’s word over a drug dealer’s.

  But she knew that something stared her in the face and she couldn’t see it. Literally or figuratively.

  “We’re missing something, René,” she said. “Like Piot said, it’s right there but we don’t see it.”

  Saturday

  AIMÉE SAT IN THE clinic in l’hôpital Quinze-Vingts hugging her bag. The rustle of magazine pages amid frequent calling of patient names from the reception indicated efficiency. To her it also said impersonality.

  She fingered the hem of her leather miniskirt, tugged it down, and felt for the zipper. Good, it was on the side, where it should be. She couldn’t stand the waiting, the doing nothing. And the darkness.

  After last night, everything made her edgy. She figured the attacker would strike again to get Josiane’s phone and finish the job. He’d be stupid not to.

  The flics continued to do nothing. And she wondered again why Bellan hadn’t called.

  “Leduc, Aimée,” said a loud voice over the scratchy speaker. She was gripped by the elbow.

  “Come this way,” said a young woman.

  Blasts of dry heat hit her legs as they walked down a corridor echoing with footsteps, conversations, and doors whooshing open and closing.

  “I’m Dr. Reyaud, the retinologist,” a man said.

  “But I thought Dr. Lambert . . .”

  “Let’s see what we have here,” said Dr Reyaud, guiding her to what felt like a smooth plastic chair. “He referred you to me.”

  Without telling her?

  “But he hasn’t . . .

  “Have a seat,” he said.

  She felt a glowing heat on her eyelid.

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t worry, mademoiselle, this won’t hurt.”

  His patronizing tone bothered her.

  “Did you see the MRI results, Doctor?” she asked.

  “Machines show us some details, but not everything,” he said. “Deciphering the brain’s architecture takes time.”

  “Does that mean my retina’s involved?”

  “Like I said, we see the damage but not necessarily the immune defenses and healing process battling it.”

  No, he hadn’t said. But he wasn’t saying much.

  “Dr. Lambert wants to run more tests . . .”

  “I’ve taken over your case,” said Dr. Reyaud, “He has transferred your file to me.”

  A sinking feeling came over her.

  She’d made a fool of herself the other night with Dr. Lambert. Guy, as he’d wanted her to call him. Must have drank more than she’d realized. But he’d seemed amenable. More than amenable when he’d kissed her.

  Dumb. She’d scared him off. Or had he scared himself off, wary of obligation?

  He’d tried to be nice, that’s it. Got carried away and realized on his way home. Doctors didn’t get involved with patients. Who cared? Not she.

  “Doctor, my vision came back,” she said. “Not very clearly or for long. Last night I saw light and dark. But I did recognize things.”

  “That’s quite common with trauma to the optic nerve,” he said. “Does your vision flicker in and out?”

  She nodded. All the blinking sparks and pepper-like fog must mean bad news. “Doctor, will things get worse. . .can the inflammation affect other parts of my brain?”

  She heard metal scratch. His stethoscope against his name badge. She felt him take her hand in his. They were large and warm.

  “Mademoiselle, you’re young, healthy and strong-willed, according to your chart and from what I hear from Dr. Lambert,” he said. “There’s so much going for you. No one can predict the future. But let’s try a new anti-inflammatory medication, see if it reduces the swelling more effectively. Schedule your next appointment for Monday.”

  By Monday she could be dead. And that wasn’t her depression speaking.

  An older nurse guided her to pick up her prescription. By the time she’d made it back to Madame Danoux’s, she felt so tired and dispirited that she fell asleep.

  She woke up to a chill in the room. It must be evening. Blind people must save a lot on their energy bill since they used so little electricity for light, she reflected.

  Then, from outside the window, she heard a church bell strike twelve. Only noon.

  What if the Romanian had an arrest record, but it was sitting on someone’s desk? Or had been filed with the morning reports, like so many of the backlog cases. Overworked flics got to them when they had desk time. She knew they always aimed to clear their desks by noon.

  She had to do something until she could check with Martin. That wouldn’t be for hours. She called the Commissariat again, asked for the records department.

  “Lieutenant Égérie? I’m Aimée Leduc. My father worked with you.”

  Pause. She heard raised voices in the background, like an argument.

  “So you’re Jean-Claude’s daughter!”

  Égérie, whose name meant muse, suffered teasing because of it. He’d been the dispatcher on her father’s shift. A tall man, thin as a rail, he lived with his mother. He had a prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed when he talked, which had fascinated her as a little girl. Sometimes, in the Commissariat, after school when the others were busy he’d bend his double-jointed fingers and do amazing tricks.

  “I remember when you got those rollerskates, not like the ones they have today,” said Lieutenant Égérie. “The wheels came off . . .”

  “And you were the only one who could fix them,” she said, “everyone else was helpless. Just like now.”

  He laughed. “Still the same. But you’re not asking me for help now, are you?”

  She told him about Dragos.

  “Let me see,” he said, his voice tired, “we’re down four investigating officers due to flu. They’ve pulled staff for the explosives case. Everyone here’s doing double shifts.”

  Funny, Morbier hadn’t told her that.

  “Of course, just thought I’d ask,” she said. “What explosives?”

  “Very hush-hush,” he said. “I haven’t heard much.”

  And he usually did.

  “I’ll sniff around for you on Dragos. No promises.”

  She hung up. And for a moment, thoughts of Dr. Guy Lambert crossed her mind. She wondered if he’d watched the sunrise this morning. For half a franc, she’d call and ask him what colors had painted the dawn.

  But he’d referred her to another doctor. And hadn’t even told her. Forget him.

  A minute later she dialed his office.

  “Dr. Lambert’s in a meeting,” the receptionist told her.

  “Please have him call me . . .” she paused. This was about her health, not about some silly kiss after several drinks that he regretted. A delicious kiss. Of course, he’d done the classic French naval manuever . . . made for the target, then veered off and run. “This concerns my MRI results.”

  And it struck her again . . . did his opinion matter? She feared the worst. The retinologist hadn’t even responded to her queries.

  Chantal and Lucas led full, active lives, adapting and managing without sight. She could learn to live with the darkness. Even if she didn’t want to. Even if it wasn’t fair. Even if the man who caused it was still out there somewhere.

  And she would.

  She had to keep telling herself that.

  She’d never saddle René with a whining, awkward burden. That’s if he would still want to work with her. She’d have to organize her life, adapt her apartment and the office, learn Braille, train Miles Davis to cope. And pay her bills.

  But first she had to find out who was after her, before they came calling again. And deal with Vincent’s predicament, as she’d promised René.

  She booted up her laptop and opened the Popul
ax file one more time. Checked each entry pertaining to Incandescent, the gun-running firm Vincent had unwittingly represented. After two tiring hours of examining data via the robotic screen reader, she felt convinced Vincent had honored the marketing duties outlined in his standard short contract.

  Why would he fear showing his clean laundry in public? Why had he torn up their contract?

  Curious, she delved further, checking his e-mail. Then his deleted e-mail. Common thinking was if you deleted e-mail it was erased from the hard drive. But that was true only if you didn’t know where to find it. Once written or received, nothing left the hard drive.

  After reading Vincent’s e-mails, she concluded that he was having an affair. A very hot one, almost worshipful in tone, with someone called Inca.

  If it was exposure of these e-mails that bothered him, she’d ask René, see if he thought they could have a word with la Proc. Try and work out a deal citing the intimacy factor. They’d done it before and saved face for a few of their clients.

  When she was about to end her search, the robotic voice said “Unable to read encrypted e-mail file.”

  Startled, she sat back, alarms sounding in her brain.

  Vincent had encrypted part of his e-mail! That bothered her. Why just some of it, not all?

  She checked the date. A Friday. René picked up all client backup tapes on Friday mornings. A routine. And then it occurred to her that Inca . . . might be short for Incandescent . . . or someone who worked there.

  Was Vincent having an affair with someone at Incandescent? Had he wanted to withhold the hard drive because of an affair with an employee . . . an employee in a company being investigated?

  She wondered if René’s standard backup files would display the e-mail before it had been encrypted. A long shot, she figured, but worthy of scrutiny. Otherwise she’d ask René for software to crack the encryption. But depending on the code, and with her handicap, it would take time. Longer than they had.

  She rummaged in the laptop carrying case, feeling for the velcro tabs holding the tapes, assuming they were where she hoped René kept them.

  Sun beat down on her leg, warm and lush for October. A nice break from the rain. From somewhere in the apartment, a parakeet’s song trilled.

  Below, a Frexpresse delivery man announced his arrival with a shout from the courtyard. “Delivery!”

  What she wouldn’t do right now for an espresso and a cigarette! Yet she wasn’t up to navigating Madame Danoux’s kitchen, redolent of bay leaf, without any help. It would be as daunting as negotiating the Métro platform without a white cane.

  Twenty minutes later, after much experimentation, she found the right Populax backup files. They had an extensive batch, since Vincent had been a client for several months. After another two tries, she found the tape.

  The robotic voice enunciating the contents of Inca’s hot emails was almost funny. But something nagged her. Why hadn’t Vincent told her? Or had he been embarrassed because she would know the recipient?

  She put that thought aside to follow up later.

  After Inca’s torrid e-mail correspondence came a series of innocuous messages from Popstar. The subject read Marmalade tea. Then she deciphered:

  Call 92 23 80 29 for a good time.

  Why encrypt this sort of thing? Something smelled off. Way off.

  She decided to check each detail; she reprogrammed the software. Now the robotic voice read each word of the email header. Her system had trace route capability, so she converted the e-mails’ IP address by using a DOS command line and pinging the name which came back as a number: 217.73.192.109.

  This pinging, as it hopped on the IP’s traceroute, indicated how many servers the e-mail had gone through. She figured if she listened long enough, she’d hear a pinging symphony.

  Excited, she kept going. After twenty hops, it landed.

  243ms 246ms 239ms head.rambler.ru ru . . . the origin of the message was Russia.

  She sat back, surprised. And tried several more. Every time it went back to the same server in Moscow. That made sense. Even though the Wall had fallen and the Soviet Union disintegrated, she knew Big Brother in Moscow still looked at all email. They probably hadn’t enough money to change their system.

  Yet.

  Now she had to figure out why Vincent was getting spam-like e-mail from Russia that he kept encrypted. Was he the intended recipient? Was it going first to someone else?

  The phone rang. Josiane’s phone.

  She hesitated then answered.

  “Allô?”

  “I’ve just got a minute,” Lieutenant Egérie said. “This came across my desk.”

  She picked up an unusual, tense note in his voice.

  “I appreciate it.”

  “In the process of being charged, a man became ill,” Lieutenant Égérie said. “A Dragos Iliescu.”

  That was the name Yann Rémouze had given to René. She held back her excitement.

  “Where’s he now?”

  “Hôtel Dieu, but he’s due to be charged with drug trafficking in the 11ième.”

  “Merci.”

  The Hôtel-Dieu, on Île de la Cité between Notre Dame and quai des Orfèvres, supposedly dated from Druid times. However, Aimée’s lycée teacher had insisted it was only from Emperor Julien II’s era. And her parish priest had cited Saint-Landry, the bishop of Paris in A.D. 600, as the builder of this hospital for the needy.

  Any of them were good enough for her.

  She knew how to circumvent the Hôtel Dieu switchboard, archaic, but still functioning.

  “Bonjour,” she said. “I’m calling on Commissaire Morbier’s behalf about prisoner Iliescu.”

  The woman at the other end of the line coughed; papers rustled. “Let me transfer you to the ward nurse.”

  Clicks and buzzing accompanied her call.

  “Ward 13C,” said a brisk voice.

  “Checking on prisoner Dragos Iliescu. The Commissaire’s interested in his health status.”

  “So he’s a doctor now, your Commissaire?”

  “Not in this life,” said Aimée, trying to inject a world-weary tone in her voice as if she did this every day, “but he wants to know if this Iliescu’s healthy enough for arraignment.”

  “Let me check,” she said. “Aaah, that one. Transferred from CUSCO to intensive care.”

  CUSCO was the prison section of Hôtel Dieu.

  “Can you elaborate? Why?”

  “He needs twenty-four hour care and supervision,” she said.

  What was wrong with him?

  “Sounds serious. Want to share it with me so I can give my boss a time-frame here? Two days, a week, or . . .”

  “Third degree burns, high fever, nausea,” the sister said. “Hard to say.”

  “Burns?” she asked, perplexed.

  “Like he’d been on vacation, but only his arm got sunburned. Bizarre, eh?” she said. “Time for rounds, excuse me.”

  Bizarre.

  From the window, Aimée felt the Seine-scented breeze waft inside. If only she could take Miles Davis for a walk right now along the quai.

  If only.

  But food and rent weren’t paid with if onlys. She had to move on.

  And then she thought about what René had recounted to her after his conversation with Mathieu, the ébéniste, in the passage. She had some questions; it was time for her to visit him.

  “ I APPRECIATE your taking me, Chantal,” Aimée said.

  “No problem,” said Chantal, “It’s on my way to the Braille library on Avenue Parmentier. I work there this afternoon.”

  “Work?”

  “What people do to earn money, yes,” she said. “I supervise the reading room.”

  Aimée felt Chantal’s dry hand on her elbow, guiding her. And the uneven cobbles beneath her feet. She didn’t want to admit how afraid she felt. How vulnerable to attack.

  But talking with Cavour could give her information about Josiane.

  Or not.

 
But she had no one else to ask.

  “You know, there’s a Braille beginning class starting next week. Two nights a week, an accelerated class.”

  Aimée thought about all the CDs she wanted to hear. And how if she put off learning Braille, it would just get harder.

  “Sign me up, Chantal,” she said, anxious to arrive.

  “Fine. We’re almost there,” said Chantal. “Feel the wall, how it curves; it’s the way medieval entrances were built.”

  Aimée’s hands, guided by Chantal’s, felt the pocked, cold stones, the crumbling pebblelike mortar in between. Grayish film swam in front of her eyes, coarse and grainy. Like ground pepper. Her heart skidded. Was she seeing what she was feeling?

  “Dr. Lambert’s referred me to a retinologist,” she said. “Why couldn’t the geek have done it in the first place?”

  “Geek . . . are you kidding?” she said. “Everyone says he’s . . .”

  “Pardon, madame et mademoiselle,” said a quavering voice near them.

  Aimée slid the sunglasses up on her head. And for a moment, a glint of silver hair flashed in front of her, superimposed on the pepperlike film. But there was no depth. No distinction between close or far.

  The world tilted. Dizziness overwhelmed her. She grabbed at the wall, pressed her forehead against the cold stone, gray and furred with lichen. Ecstatic to see, and yet so dizzy.

  “Alors, Aimée, I must hurry,” said Chantal. “I have to open the reading room.”

  “But Chantal . . .”

  “Mathieu, Mathieu!” said Chantal, interrupting her, pulling Aimée along.

  She felt as though she’d stepped into a Dalí painting. No depth of field, everything pasted together. Colors colliding. Weaving and wonderful and surreal and sickening.

  She picked a point and tried to focus, but every stone, each bar of woven grille work, disoriented her. Her nose brushed the wall, yet she’d had no idea how close she was.

  Her head ached. She wanted so much to see and so much to close her eyes.

  And then it began fading. Fading. Images of a hammer, and a man in a wavy, blue workcoat, coming in and fading out . . . a gauze-like haze hovered, never quite lifting.

  The man’s mouth was moving in the haze, he was saying “Chantal . . .” The granular film descended, succeeded by gray mist.